


The Wedding Present

by Bold_as_Brass



Series: Time and Weddings [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, First Time, Humor, M/M, Roleplay, Sexual Content, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 07:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1501430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_as_Brass/pseuds/Bold_as_Brass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a while since anyone had tried to pick him up, but Lestrade was almost certain that was what was happening now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was late by the time Lestrade returned to the wedding. The party was long since over, the buffet had been eaten and sleepy-eyed waiters were clearing away the last of the wedding cake.The dining room was almost empty. The red glow of an ember and the faint, familiar smell of Benson and Hedges revealed one last smoker sitting on out the patio, enjoying the remains of the evening. Other than that the guests had all gone. John and Mary had disappeared off to bed. Molly, Mrs Hudson and their respective other halves were nowhere to be seen, probably on the last train to London, which was where he should have been. He rubbed his evening stubble and considered the options. The local B&Bs would be full of wedding guests. The desk sergeant at Yeovil police station had offered him a spare cell, but he didn't fancy it. Of course if he’d been with someone they’d have booked a room at the hotel and made a night of it, but he wasn't, and he hadn't, and that was that.

“Sherlock’s not here, Detective Inspector,” said a voice from the patio.

Detective _Chief_ Inspector he thought, but didn't bother correcting the mistake. The voice sounded familiar but the profile, dimly lit by the waning moon, didn't ring any bells. Like many police officers he'd developed a good memory for faces. He thought he would have remembered those sharp features. “No, I was looking for my coat. I left it here earlier. Have you seen it?”

The smoker leant into the light. “A fawn trench coat? I believe someone took it to Reception.” Revealed, he was a pale man of middle age with a faintly supercilious air that set Lestrade’s teeth on edge. “Though I'm afraid it's already closed. Things shut so early in the country.”

Balls. That was his phone and his wallet locked away for the night. “What time do they open, do you know?”

“About eight, I think.” The smoker took a slow, unconcerned drag of his cigarette.

Looked like he was stopping here for the night, then. It wouldn't the first time he’d slept under a pool table but he was getting a bit old for all that. A prickle down his spine told him he was being watched. When he glanced over the smoker's eyes were running up and down his body with an intensity that belied his casual demeanour. The scrutiny lasted for less than a second but in that moment Lestrade's wardrobe had been priced, his habits laid bare and his psyche dissected. The smoker stubbed out his cigarette and deigned to extend a gracious hand. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said to Lestrade's no great surprise. His grip was stronger than his rather dilettantish manner had suggested. “Sherlock’s brother. We've spoken previously - the Baskerville affair.” 

“Yes,” said Lestrade. “Hello.” Speaking wasn't how he would have described it. That would suggest a conversation had taken place. Crisply enunciated orders followed by a dialling tone would have been a more accurate summary. “Greg Lestrade. I didn't realise you were, er-”  _invited_ “attending?”

“I wasn't planning to,” said Mycroft releasing him, “but Sherlock called earlier.”

“Oh?”

“Called,” said Mycroft with emphasis. “Didn't text, picked up the telephone and called. Sherlock never calls. I thought I’d better check he was all right.”

“You live nearby?"

“London.”

“And you came all the way down to Somerset?” said Lestrade before remembering he’d scrambled half of SCO19 on the basis of one of Sherlock’s texts not too long ago. Mycroft’s arched eyebrow suggested news of that little escapade had travelled further than he might have liked. “So where is he now?”

“Driving back to London as we speak,” said Mycroft. "We probably passed each other on the motorway.” He sounded surprisingly philosophical about his wasted journey. “And how about you, not heading off home?”

“No. I've got to go down the station tomorrow and give a statement. We had a bit of bother at the wedding.”

“Oh yes - Major Sholto. Well if you're not about to dash off, you can join me for a nightcap.” A chair nudged forward as if under its own volition. Mycroft raised an imperious hand. A waiter had materialised and taken his order before Lestrade had formulated a reply.

“Are you staying here tonight?” he said, bowing to the inevitable and taking the indicated seat.

Mycroft lifted an elegant shoulder. “Apparently so, it's a little late to be travelling. I've taken Sherlock’s room. Basic, but it will do in a pinch. Cigarette?” He indicated the pack on the table.

“No thanks.”

“You don’t mind if I do.” It wasn't a question.

Their drinks arrived in record time - two glasses of brandy on a silver salver. Not Lestrade's normal tipple but it went down smoothly enough. A pleasant little coda to a rough day.

“Don't suppose there were any other rooms available?” he asked without much hope.

“None at all,” Mycroft said. “I would have preferred Major Sholto’s – it had a bath – but apparently there’s some police,” he waved an airy hand, wafting smoke, “protocol whereby we’re not allowed use it just yet. Needs to be searched for evidence or somesuch.”

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, before realising he was being teased, “there probably would be, yeah.”

They nursed their brandy in silence for a few moments. Lestrade’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he took the opportunity to study his new companion. Sherlock's big brother, the mysterious Mycroft Holmes. The family resemblance was fleeting but there was something about his upright bearing which seemed familiar. He’d barely touched his cigarette, seemingly content to hold it and watch the smoke spiral into the darkness. The pose could have been specifically chosen to display his long-fingered hand to its best effect. There was a theatricality to the gesture which also rang a bell, now he thought about it.

“Are you going to smoke that,” he said eventually, “or just look at it?”

“My shame revealed,” said Mycroft. “I am in truth a social smoker. Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”

Self control warred with nicotine addiction and, not for the first time, lost. “Go on then," he said. He took a cigarette from the packet and held it between his lips while he looked about for a lighter. To his surprise, Mycroft leant forward and lit it for him, cupping his hand around the flame, film noir style. The incongruity made Lestrade grin; he’d never pictured himself as a _femme fatale_. Then the nicotine hit and he closed his eyes in bliss at the first sweet rush. Bitter smoke combined with the taste of smooth brandy. God, he missed smoking.

“Almost worth abstaining for,” said Mycroft.

Lestrade exhaled a long plume of smoke into the cool night air and didn't answer. Anyone else and he might have thought they were being flirtatious. He took a second thoughtful drag and mulled it over. Sherlock hadn't mentioned his brother was gay but that was Sherlock for you; sex didn't really interest him. Mycroft had bought him a drink but that might have just been him being friendly. He didn't seem particularly friendly but it was hard to tell sometimes with public school types. The cigarette lighting, though, had been strangely intimate and that last comment about abstinence had been delivered in tones he might almost have described as sultry. On the other hand, this was Mycroft Holmes. A big cheese in the Government by all accounts and not the kind of man to proposition strangers at weddings. Nah, he decided. I'm imagining it. He's posh that's all. I've been out of the game too long; I'm misreading the signals.

“It’s a double room,” said Mycroft casually derailing that train of thought. “I’m open to sharing.”

Lestrade inhaled a full lungful of smoke in shock. “Say that again,” he croaked once he'd finished coughing.

“I’m open to sharing.”

“You mean... I could sleep on the floor?”

“No,” said Mycroft. “No, I don’t believe that was what I meant at all.”

“What did you mean then?” The words came out throaty and more belligerent than he’d intended.

“Oh, I don’t know, I'm sure, ” said Mycroft. He knocked a long tip of ash from his smouldering cigarette with an impatient air. “For what other reason would two grown men share a bed? Cudgel your brains, Detective Inspector. I'm sure an answer will occur.”

“You think I’m gay?”

There was a flash of teeth in the dimness. “I think you, shall we say, _dabbled,_ once or twice in your youth.”

“Well yeah,” Lestrade said, “I dabbled. I mean we all _dabbled_ ; it was the eighties but-”

“But then you met a nice girl and settled down and stopped dabbling,” said Mycroft with a touch of bitterness. “Yes, I too remember the eighties.”

“Oh,” said Lestrade. He wondered if he should declare himself mortally offended and leave. But he wasn't, and he was too old to be playing those types of daft games. “And you think I might want to dabble again?”

“Why not?" Mycroft shrugged. “It’s a wedding. Such activities are traditional, I'm led to believe.”

“Dabbling?”

“If you like.”

Lestrade stubbed out his cigarette and put his feet up on a spare chair. “I’m going to need another drink,” he decided.

Mycroft raised both eyebrows at that, but beckoned the waiter over without comment. A second glass of brandy appeared in short order and he watched as Lestrade drank it, a long slow appraisal which made no secret this time of his carnal intent. Lestrade let him look. Not courting the attention exactly, but not evading it either. It had been a while since he’d been admired, even in this cool, semi-sardonic manner. It did good things for his ego.

“Well?” Mycroft said, eventually.

“Well,” said Lestrade. He scratched his chin. Well, why not? It had to be a better bet than sleeping under the pool table. He'd had a crap week. Weddings weren't his favourite thing at the moment but he'd done his best to put a brave face on it and not spoil John and Mary's big day. Now it was over, maybe it was time for a bit of R&R. He was a free agent after all. The kids had their own lives, he doubted they’d care who he copped off with as long as he kept turning up for Sunday lunch; his ex-wife was happily shacked up with her new fellow in the kind of shoe-box semi in Surbiton that they’d always laughed at, and what his friends didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Although on that account....“What about Sherlock?”

Mycroft looked taken aback. “What about him?”

“Does he know I've...dabbled?”

“I can’t see the slightest possible reason why he’d care,” said Mycroft.

Well, yeah. Good point. “Oh, go on then,” he said, surprising himself. 

Mycroft didn't smile but his eyes gave a slow half-squint of satisfaction. “Excellent. Then shall we go up?”

“What now?" said Lestrade, wrong-footed. He hadn't expected to be called on to translate words into action quite so soon. He'd thought he might have another drink and let Mycroft admire him for a bit longer. Ease himself back into the swing of things, so to speak.

“No time like the present.”

He _was_ like his brother. He was seeing a definite resemblance now. Bossy. But he had a point. “All right,” he said and tossed back the last of the brandy before he could change his mind.

They stood at the same time. One of Mycroft’s hands slipped beneath his jacket as they rose, coming to rest almost casually at Lestrade's hip. “I should warn you,” he murmured confidentially, leaning in, “I’m terribly lazy in bed.”

“What?” said Lestrade, unfairly distracted by the sudden warmth of skin through the thin cotton of his shirt and the unexpected solidity of another human body only inches from his.

“I like nothing better than to lie back and think of England.”

Lestrade pulled away. Mycroft’s eyes were an inch or two above his and gazing out into the night with no apparent interest in his response. Only his thumb, rubbing slow arcs at Lestrade's waist, gave the lie to his expression of mild boredom.

“Oh right,” Lestrade said. He could see it actually - Mycroft reclining in luxury while some nameless underling laboured over his pleasure. “You say that like it's a good thing.”

“You strike me as a man who likes to please, Detective Inspector.”

There might be some truth in that, judging by the old familiar heat that had begun to smoulder low in his belly. “In the circumstances you can probably call me Lestrade.”

Mycroft's expression of mild boredom turned to mild surprise. “Not Greg?”

“My friends call me Greg.”

“ _Touché_.” A light pressure on the small of his back steered him gently but insistently towards the dining room doors. “Although, I note, Sherlock doesn't.”

“You’re not Sherlock.”

Mycroft's thumb dipped beneath his waistband. “I'm _so_  glad you noticed.”

They were almost at the stairway when Lestrade came to a halt, doubts beginning to resurface. “Hang on a sec. What if he changes his mind and wants his room back?”

“Who? Sherlock?” said Mycroft with faint, flattering, impatience. “He won’t. He’s halfway to London by now; last seen just past Basingstoke.”

Anyone else and Lestrade would have agreed, but this was Sherlock they were talking about. He'd come back from the dead last year; coming back from Basingstoke was hardly going to stretch him. “What if he does though, and walks in on us?”

Mycroft pursed his lips and gave the matter his considered attention. “Well,” he said eventually, “that would certainly teach him to knock, wouldn't it?”

“Get your coat,” said Lestrade with decision, “you've pulled.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The room was a bit floral for Lestrade’s tastes but it had a big square bed made up with stripy white bed linen, more pillows than any normal person could ever have a need for, a flat screen television and best of all, no sign Sherlock had ever been in occupancy.

“Not bad,” he said once the door had closed behind them and stepped in for a quick smooch. Mycroft though had other ideas. He was busy with his phone, clicking through his emails with an absorbed expression.

“The shower‘s through there,” he said pointing towards a second doorway.

“Okay,” said Lestrade, trying not to take offence. He slung his jacket on a convenient chair and toed off his shoes, pausing to linger by the bathroom door with what he hoped was a seductive smoulder. “You coming to join me?”

“No,” said Mycroft, not taking his eyes from the screen. “There’s barely room for one.”

Sod you then, he thought annoyed by the sudden change in mood. He was debating whether to take himself off and find a nice friendly pool table after all, when Mycroft, still clicking, added with a sudden intensity, “Don’t shave.”

“You what?”

“You heard.”

Lestrade ran a speculative thumb along his jaw line, rasping his evening stubble. Even his beard grew in grey these days. It was softer than the dark bristle of his youth, but he still liked to shave if he was entertaining company. “Why’s that then?”

A faint smile hovered at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth. “Oh you’re not quite _that_ dense, Detective Inspector.”

“Lestrade,” said Lestrade. He was really starting to see the family resemblances now. “Like a bit of rough, do you?”

Mycroft finally managed to tear his eyes away from his phone. Got it in one, Lestrade thought. He grinned and strolled into the bathroom with a hint of a swagger, leaving Mycroft staring thoughtfully after him .

Good humour full restored he showered with enthusiasm, wrapped a clean towel round his hips and had returned to the bedroom in record time. There he found Mycroft had discarded his suit and was wearing a long, white towelling bath robe of the kind that made mere mortals look bulky.

“All yours,” he said. Mycroft nodded and swept past, shutting the door firmly behind him. Clearly a man who preferred absolute privacy for his ablutions. Lestrade eyed the closed door, then decided he might as well make the most of the facilities. The bed was large and promisingly springy, a far cry from the lumpy divan and third best flannelette sheets he’d inherited in the break up. He climbed into bed, luxuriating for a moment in the smooth, cool sheets. A complicated panel of switches behind the bed opened and closed the curtains, flicked on spot lights, desk lights, floor lights he played for a bit then turned on the television just in time for Match of the Day highlights.

“I was watching that!” he protested when, some unknown time later, the picture blipped and disappeared.

Mycroft had appeared by the bed, looking a little put out. He was still in his bathrobe, hair damp and curling, remote control in one hand. “I could tell,” he said, “by the way you repeatedly failed to respond to my questions.”

“What questions?”

“Whether you minded if I turned off the television, mostly.”

“Oh,” said Lestrade guiltily. He seemed to remember having a similar conversation on several occasions with his ex-wife. More often than not it ended up with someone sleeping in the spare room. Diversionary tactics could sometimes be effective. He abandoned thoughts of the World Cup and turned his attention to the bathrobe instead. “Hope you've brought me something interesting to make up for it then,” he said, hamming up the old Estuary accent, broadening out the vowels, losing the initial h’s. The effort was not completely wasted. Mycroft unbent sufficiently to perch on the side of the bed and stare rather bleakly at the blank television screen.

“Sherlock's in London already,” he said. “I’m not sure this bodes well.”

Lestrade glanced at the little red clock beneath the TV screen, automatically calculated distance and average speed and winced.

“His focus has been so entirely on this wedding,” Mycroft continued, “now  it’s over I’m not sure what he’ll do. He does so like a cause.”

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, suddenly slightly depressed.  He wondered what had happened in his life that he’d come to be sitting stark naked next to a complete stranger and talking about Sherlock Holmes. It had all started off so promisingly. Leave school, join the Met, meet a nice girl, settle down and now here he was. Fifty, greying, divorced. Contemplating sex with someone he'd only met an hour ago. The dark glass of the television reflected two middle-aged men sitting on a double bed. Give Mycroft a pipe and glasses and they’d be dead ringers for Morecambe and Wise. “Can you turn the lights down?”

Mycroft examined the control panel and flicked three switches apparently at random. The room dimmed into seductive shadow. The reflections became anonymous shapes.

“Ta.”

“You’re welcome.” Mycroft settled back onto the bed and pressed his palms together beneath his chin in a way that seemed familiar. “I wonder if it was wise to let them get married.”

“Who?” said Lestrade. “John and Mary? Take a brave man to try and stop ‘em.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Lestrade found himself wondering what it was he actually did. Something secret squirrel - Sherlock had always been dismissive but John had seemed, if not impressed, uncharacteristically wary whenever the subject arose. “Well anyway,” he finished a little weakly, “I’m sure Sherlock will find something else to keep himself occupied.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Mycroft. He lapsed into silence long enough for Lestrade to wonder if he could get away with turning the football back on. “You’re a career policeman,” he said eventually. “Presumably an adequate one or Sherlock wouldn't tolerate you. You have these...hunches?”

Lestrade shrugged. Personally he’d always found hunches less useful than a slow, methodical trawl through the evidence. “Sometimes.”

“What do you make of our new Mrs Watson?”

“Mary?” He pictured her today, illuminated as she looked up at John. Bittersweet memories of his own wedding day. “She loves John. I know that much.”

“Ye-es,” said Mycroft cryptically. “But _love_ ,” he gave the word a slight, derisory, emphasis, “isn't really what concerns me.”

“Right,” said Lestrade, but Mycroft didn't elaborate. He was different to his brother Lestrade decided, despite the fleeting similarities. With Sherlock there was always that underlying sense of disappointment - like he thought you could keep up with him if you only _tried_ a bit harder. With Mycroft there was none of that. He didn't care if you followed his train of thought or not. It should have been insulting, but if he were honest it was a relief.

“You ran a police check, I presume?”

“That would be illegal,” said Lestrade carefully.

“Yes, but you did?”

“I had a quick look. Just in case.” Jim from IT had made him nervous about friends' sudden engagements.

“And you found nothing.” 

“Nope. Completely clean.”

Mycroft leaned back against the headboard. The movement caused the front of his dressing gown to gape, casting a long shadow. “Does that strike you as odd?”

“Having seen her drive, a bit. But not everyone's a criminal.”

Mycroft gave a light laugh, though it hadn't been a joke. “Well, quite.”

“Why?" said Lestrade. "What did you find?”

“Me?” Mycroft’s expression was guileless. “Oh, her files are absolutely clean. And as you say, she’s clearly very fond of John.”

“Right.” They both knew he was being fobbed off. They both knew he wouldn't push it.

“It’s Sherlock I worry about,” Mycroft, added his expression once again bleak.

Lestrade studied his profile. Receding hairline, prominent nose, wide, rather cruel, mouth, then glanced at the deep shadow cast by the bathrobe. “Well you can't do anything about that tonight,” he said. It was a well-worn phrase, one he’d used in the marriage bed on numerous occasions when they’d come to the end of a subject with no immediate conclusion in sight. To Mycroft though, it had the novelty of a newly-minted insight.

“True.”

“So you might as well not worry about it,” said Lestrade, which was the second part of the phrase, and sometimes the precursor to more interesting activities.

“I’m not worried,” said Mycroft, in the tones of one whom, were he _worried_ , would be readying a squadron of Tornado jets. “I’m thinking.”

Lestrade grinned; he knew the answer to this one. “So stop thinking.”

“Impossible,” said Mycroft. There was a pause. After a moment Mycroft caught his eye and divined his intentions.

“What can I do to help?” he said, pressing home the advantage.

“Well,” said Mycroft. His eyes dropped, thoughtfully, to Lestrade’s mouth. “Now that you mention it....”

“I haven't shaved," said Lestrade helpfully. “I'm probably a bit rough.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “I think you probably very well might be.” He rose in an unhurried fashion, untied the belt of his bathrobe and dropped it to the floor with a nonchalance Lestrade rather admired. He had a fleeting impression of long legs, chest hair and oh _hello_ , then Mycroft was settling back against the pillows with the air of a fifties starlet who was ready for his close up.

“Comfy there, princess?”

“Perfectly, thank you,” said Mycroft without a shade of irony.

Lestrade shook his head but ducked beneath the covers without further comment. He’d missed touching someone, warm flesh beneath his hands, the salt taste of clean skin on his tongue. Whatever the problems with his marriage, and God knew there’d been enough of them, sex had never been the issue. Even his ex had said that. The affairs had never been about the sex, she’d said. As though that might make being cheated on better, not worse.

He mapped out the shape of the body beneath him. Long arms, angular shoulders, hair from collar bone to the base of the sternum, tapering away to a softer belly. Everything was on a larger scale than he was used to. He found a hip bone, hard under the skin, prominent under his hand. He put his mouth on it and felt Mycroft stir beneath him; emboldened he repeated the caress to the other hip, the skin under his lips stretched tight and smooth across the bone, then slid lower.

Trapped beneath the duvet the air was warm and thick with the familiar musky scent of sex. He could feel the heat of a thigh next to his cheek and rubbed his face against it, cat like. He was rewarded by a murmur of pleasure and let his hands rove higher up each warm thigh.

What he found gave him pause. The cock his hand was smooth-skinned and hot, flatteringly hard. It was also quite significantly thick. He gave the shaft an experimental squeeze and felt it grow unmistakably, obscenely fatter. Well this went a long way towards explaining Mycroft’s irritating air of self-satisfaction. He wondered if he should feel inferior, but he was too old for dick measuring contests and anyway he’d never had any complaints. Logistics though, were going to be a problem. He rubbed his chin and considered options. It had been decades since he’d handled another man’s cock, let alone anything the size of this. Still a blow job was a blow job, surely. Teeth: bad; tongue: good. Enthusiasm would make up for any deficiencies in execution, he decided. And with that in mind, he set to work.

The technique took a bit of adjustment. On the one hand it was easier than with a woman - everything was right there out in the open so to speak. On the other hand it all covered a much greater surface area than he was used to. Sucking for any length of time gave him jaw ache, so he alternated it with running his tongue over the smooth round head, teasing under foreskin while he stroked the shaft. After ten minutes he was getting quite into it. Bit like riding a bicycle really - you never forgot how.

After fifteen, he found himself wondering rather uncharitably how long this was going to take.

“All right?” he said, pulling off for a breather.

There was no response. Mycroft lay still, very still. Lestrade frowned. Abandoning yourself to pleasure was one thing but this seemed- was it his imagination or was there, at the very periphery of his hearing, the faintest clicking?

He rested his chin on one long thigh. “If I find out you’re checking your emails, I’m going to be very cross,” he said. His throat was scratchy and the words came out as a menacing growl. The thigh beneath his chin gave a tell-tale twitch. “Am I going to have to come up there? 'Cos if I am, I'm telling you now - you won't like it.”

“You’re a Chief Inspector,” said Mycroft in a conversational tone, “not just an Inspector. You never mentioned it.”

“You're checking my file? Right, you’re getting it now, sunny Jim.” He began crawling his way up the bed, fighting his way through the duvet.

“Checking your file would be illegal,” said Mycroft serenely. He fended Lestrade off with one hand, clicking quickly with the other. “Special constable, police constable, brief stint in Vice then CID. Worked your way up to Sergeant...” Lestrade made a lunge for the phone. Mycroft swapped it deftly to the other hand. “Law degree from the Open University? You keep that quiet too. Passed your Inspector's exams then led your own Murder Investigation-

“Give me that!”

They wrestled for a few moments. Mycroft had long arms and a surprising, wiry, strength but Lestrade had thirty years’ experience of breaking up minor scuffles. The contest was short,  uneven and decisive. He grabbed the phone and chucked it across the room. It landed unseen, with a soft thump onto the carpet.

“I do hope you haven’t broken that,” said Mycroft, peevish and a little out of breath.

“Serves you right if I have!”

“Well, we’ll know shortly. Because if you have in approximately thirty seconds three heavily armed men are going to kick down the door.”

“Oh,” said Lestrade. His irritation evaporated. He wondered if he should put some trousers on. They waited, staring at the dim outline of the bedroom doorway. “How much longer do you think?” he said when he’d counted to forty.

Beneath him, he felt Mycroft shrug. “Give it another minute. If they’re not here by then they should check in.”

“Right.” In the dimness he could make out little of Mycroft’s expression but his voice sounded perfectly matter-of fact. “Does this happen often?”

“On occasion. The last time was when Sherlock dropped it into a pot of tea. That wasn't good for it at all.” There was a soft ping from across the bedroom and the phone screen illuminated, revealing itself. “Oh good.” Mycroft slid from beneath him and went to retrieve it, typing in a complicated code before setting it carefully on the bedside table. “Now, where were we?”

“I was telling you off.”

“So you were,” Mycroft rolled back beneath the covers. “You were very being stern; I was quite enjoying it.”

“Were you now?” Mycroft said nothing, but gave him a heavy-lidded look. Perhaps there was a time and a place for policeman’s intuition after all. “You’re coming down the station with me, mate,” he said on a hunch, thrusting his head forward so their faces were only inches apart.

“Oh, officer,” Mycroft’s voice dipped to a supercilious purr, “surely there’s some arrangement we can come to?”

He faked baffled belligerence. “What kind of arrangement?”

“I’ll let you suck me,” Mycroft said with the kind of brazen self-assurance that only a Holmes could muster.

“You naughty boy,” he said and had Mycroft’s arm twisted behind his back and a hand pushing his face into the pillows before he could react. He could still handle a stroppy customer, even if he was a bit more padded than he had been back in the day.

“Oh!” Mycroft cried, his legs thrashing, “be gentle with me.”

Lestrade released his arm guiltily.

“Not quite that gentle,” said Mycroft in his normal voice.

Right. He put the arm lock halfway back on and brought his mouth in close to Mycroft's ear. “Now you,” he growled in his best Ray Winston impression, “are going to be a very good boy for me. Aren't you, darling?”

Mycroft nodded into the pillow.

“Yes, you are. You're going to roll over and spread your legs and I don’t want to hear another word from you that isn’t a ‘yes officer’ or a ‘thank you, officer.’ Is that clear?”

“Yes, officer.” The reply came instantly, though rather muffled.

“All right.”

He didn't worry about technique this time. He just jacked Mycroft off with one hand and sucked the head of his cock when he felt like it. In between times he muttered things like: “That’s how you like it, innit?” and: “I know your type.”

Judging by the gasps, and eventually squeals, coming from beneath him, he’d got that part pretty much right.


	3. Chapter 3

“Thank you, officer,” said Mycroft from his bower of pillows.

Lestrade switched off the bathroom light and climbed back under the duvet. “Better than you deserved.”

“Mm,” Mycroft stretched with lazy satisfaction. “You can fuck me if you like,” he said when he was done, in the manner of one granting a huge favour.

Lestrade thought about it, but it was late and he was sleepy and his back ached. “Nah, you’re all right. Give me a hand job and ask me again in the morning.”

A speaking pause greeted this response. Mycroft was obviously not used to having his generous offers of buggery refused. “I will be leaving v _very_  early,” he said eventually.

“Then you’d better make the most of me while you’ve got me, hadn’t you?” said Lestrade. He commandeered a couple of pillows of his own, chucked some of the extraneous ones onto the floor and patted the mattress by his side. “Come on. Put those pretty hands to good use.”

“Pretty?” said Mycroft, but he rolled over and arranged himself along Lestrade’s right flank in the attitude of a man prepared to be persuaded.

“Yeah,” he thought of Mycroft posing with his cigarette earlier. “And you know it.”

Rather to his surprise, there was no barbed retort. Instead Mycroft began drawing lazy circles across his chest with the tips of his cool fingers, stroking over his pectorals before looping slowly downwards in a way that felt promising. It was probably a bit – what would the kids say? - tragic, that the thought of a hand job was such a turn on but there was something naughty about it, furtive, like being a teenager again, which made him grin.

Mycroft's wandering hand had reached the edge of the duvet. He looked at Lestrade in silent challenge then whisked the duvet to one side without ceremony. It joined the pillows on the floor and Mycroft continued his slow exploration, his fingers pausing to linger at one hip. Lestrade glanced down. His tattoo - a faded red shield on the outside of one thigh. Relic of a long-ago lad's holiday to Magaluf, when getting matching tattoos of your football team had been one of those things that you did. Mycroft seemed intrigued, tracing the blurred outline with one finger. Probably didn’t see many tattoos in Whitehall. Or perhaps these days you did.

“It was for the centenary,” he said.

“Oh,” said Mycroft politely, clearly with no idea what he was talking about. He examined Lestrade’s hip a while longer, then turned his attention towards his cock. It had been half-hard and neglected these last few minutes and the speculative look in Mycroft’s eye made him twitch in anticipation. Yeah, he thought as he watched Mycroft’s long pale hand slide slowly up his thigh. This had _definitely_ been a good decision.

 

* * *

 

 

Ten minutes later he was regretting it bitterly. Mycroft had spent the first few minutes massaging his shaft and cupping his balls. All good stuff, but pretty standard. He realised now it had been a ploy, designed to lull him into a false sense of security.  Sweat trickled from his temples and beaded across his upper lip. He’d rucked  the smooth white sheets into disarray and the last of the pillows had been scattered across the floor. Mycroft lay perpendicular to him, his left arm thrown, apparently causally, across Lestrade’s hips pinning them to the bed like an iron bar. With the thumb and forefinger of his right hand he was gripping just beneath the head of Lestrade’s cock and rubbing slow deliberate circles across the skin. It was the slowest, most agonising,  _laziest_  fucking hand job he'd ever received. His cock was dark red, the head swollen and glossy and all the while Mycroft’s fingers barely moved, concentrating all his attention on the scant half inch of flesh that formed the most sensitive part of Lestrade's body.

When it had gone on for longer than he thought could bear, Mycroft glanced up, examining his face with clinical detachment. What he saw seemed to please him, though Lestrade couldn’t imagine he looked his best, what with the veins throbbing in his forehead and his face probably only a couple of shades lighter than his cock.

“I imagine you'd have been quite pretty yourself,” Mycroft said conversationally, before spoiling it by adding with a slight, cruel smile, “thirty years ago.”

Thirty years ago. When was that? Eighty-four - Margaret Thatcher, miner's strike, dancing in the clubs to the New Romantics - it didn’t seem that long ago. “Thirty years ago, I would have been arresting you for a moment of madness on Clapham Common, I expect,” he said with some difficulty. “When did they start letting gay men into the security services anyway?”

“Ninety-one,” said Mycroft without hesitation. His thumb circled tirelessly.

“You’d have been in trouble, then wouldn’t you?”

“Why so?” said Mycroft his expression opaque. Whether he was practising habitual obfuscation about his job, his sexuality or both, Lestrade couldn’t tell.

“Because-” he began, then Mycroft tightened his grip and whatever he was going to say disappeared into a choked-off gurgle.

“Do you want to come?” Mycroft asked, as though he were asking if Lestrade wanted sugar in his tea.

"Yeah," he managed. “Really do, yeah.”

He didn’t know what he expected but it wasn’t for Mycroft to nod and stand, abandoning him in the middle of the bed. He lay gasping for breath, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing. Perhaps the dig about Clapham Common had struck too close to home. Or perhaps Mycroft had wanted him to beg. He would - he wasn't proud. He was about to suggest it when he felt something cool touch his stomach. A white linen napkin had appeared, spread across his lower abdomen like a table cloth. Then the mattress dipped and Mycroft was sitting at his side once more.

“What?” he managed, before Mycroft took him firmly back in hand.

This time he'd shifted his grip, gripping the shaft and pumping his hand up and down the entire length of Lestrade's cock like a piston, the sensation barely on the right side of pain. Sherlock had casually mentioned once that he was exceptionally strong in the fingers. Apparently it was a family trait. This wasn’t teasing. This was designed to make him come as hard and as fast as possible. Minimum effort expended for maximum effect. Still he wasn’t sure right until the end that he wasn't going to be taken to the edge and left hanging. Only in the final few seconds did he realise that it was really going to happen and with that realisation he was thrashing across the bed and coming so hard that he missed the napkin entirely and shot halfway up his chest.

There was silence for a few moments. “Ah well,” said Mycroft philosophically, retrieving the napkin and mopping up. “Best laid plans.”

Lestrade stared at him wide-eyed, his heart pounding in his temples. “Fucking  _hell_ ,” he said, once he’d regained his breath, and was asleep almost before he’d finished the sentence.

* * *

 

He woke to the sound of clicking. When he opened his eyes faint shadows were dancing across the ceiling.

“Are you mad?” he said. “It's-” he squinted at the red clock beneath the television, “three in the morning.”

“And the Hang Seng has just opened for the week.” Mycroft was sitting on the side of the bed, his face hidden from view, his thumbs moving rapidly across the phone keyboard.

“Then it’ll still be open in four hours’ time, won’t it?” said Lestrade. “Come back to bed.”

To his surprise Mycroft complied, clicking through a few more screens then replacing the phone on the bedside table. Lestrade gave it a minute, then rolled across the mattress and spooned up behind him. He liked a cuddle in the small hours - some human contact to chase away the demons - but he ran hot at nights. His wife used to say it was like sleeping with a radiator. In the early years she'd claimed to like it, later on, not so much. Mycroft though, was long and cool, and where Lestrade pressed against him he absorbed the heat and dissipated it. He also had a round and surprisingly succulent bum. Lestrade felt a pang of regret for opportunities missed and shuffled closer.

Mycroft gave a surprised murmur. “You aren’t to assume that simply because we’re sharing a bed-” he began.

“I know,” said Lestrade. “We’re dabbling. It’s fine. Christ, your feet are freezing. Give them here.” He draped his feet over the offending ice blocks, buried the tip of his nose in the nape of Mycroft’s neck and fell asleep.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The next time he opened his eyes it was daylight and birds were doing that loud chirping thing they liked to do in the country. He was alone in the bed. The bathroom door stood ajar and though it the sound of the shower revealed Mycroft’s whereabouts. In retrospect, the whole of the previous day took on a dream-like quality - the wedding, Sherlock’s godawful speech, the arrest, Mycroft - all of it. The shower stopped. The bathroom door was open. He stared up at the ceiling, scratched his belly and ruminated over that. Last night it had been firmly shut. What were the chances it had been left open by accident today? He pondered for a while longer, then went to investigate.

Mycroft was standing in his bathrobe in front of the sink, the bottom half of his face covered in a creamy shaving foam which probably hadn't come from a can. He’d been right; the bathroom wasn't big enough for two. It contained a curtained off shower, a toilet, a sink with a mirror above and a small window. Standing in the middle, Lestrade could touch each of the walls.

“Budge over,” he said. “I need a pee.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at this uncouthness but shifted sideways without comment. Urinal etiquette being sacrosanct he stared straight ahead as he pissed, not attempting conversation. Halfway through he had a weird feeling he was being watched but when he checked out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft was busy shaving, staring into the mirror deep in thought. The sink being occupied, once he'd finished he stepped into the shower and sluiced himself down with tepid water, drying off with the first thing that came to hand.

“That is the bath mat,” Mycroft observed wiping the last of the foam from his face.

Lestrade shrugged. It was towel shaped and made of towelling. “Had a nice time last night,” he said, pitching it somewhere between a question and a statement.

Mycroft rinsed his razor, dried it carefully and considered. He seemed taller this morning, sterner, and wore what appeared to be his habitual expression of faint disdain. “Yes?” he said in the manner of one who had some slight reservations.

“Made you squeal, didn’t I?” said Lestrade. He finished towelling himself dry and looked over Mycroft’s shoulder into the mirror, trying to do something with his damp hair.

“I don’t believe I have ever squealed in my life.”

“That so?” said Lestrade. He seemed to remember different. “That’s a pity.” He gave up on his hair and dried his hands on the arms of Mycroft’s bathrobe instead, taking the opportunity to press up against that nice round bum as he did. “Morning,” he said into Mycroft's ear. Last night’s activities had given him a proper East End growl.

“Good morning,” said Mycroft. Surprisingly, he voiced no objection to this mistreatment of his robe.

“You made me an offer last night," said Lestrade emboldened. He nudged his hips forward in illustration. “Want me to take you up on it?”

“Well,” said Mycroft, he replaced his razor in its case and rested it in on the windowsill, “you’d have to be quick. My car’s arriving at six thirty.”

It was hardly enthusiastic agreement. On the other hand, the bathroom door had been left open; he was pretty sure that counted for something.

“Was that a ‘yes,’ and you're just playing hard to get?" he said. “Or a ‘no, we haven't got time’?”

Mycroft gave a faint appreciative smile at his bluntness. “It was a yes,” he said and Lestrade felt a brief pressure against his crotch. “As long as you’re quick.”

“Oh, was it now?” He pressed forward, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's waist and getting a nice little rhythm going with his hips.

“Mmm. Yes.” The pressure was more definite this time and they spent a couple of minutes indulging in some mutually satisfactory grinding. The coarse fabric of the bathrobe felt good against his skin. He groped between its bulky folds, found Mycroft’s cock hard and stroked him harder. The enclosed space of the bathroom grew pungent with the scent of expensive shaving cream, warm, clean skin and sweat.

When he thought there was a risk they were getting too heated, he stopped and rubbed his bristly cheek against Mycroft's satiny smooth one. “Want to go back to bed?”

“No,” said Mycroft. “I prefer it in here.”

“Oh,” said Lestrade taken back, “all right.” He frowned and considered logistics. Sex while standing was one thing. Sex while standing in a small bathroom on a slippery floor sounded like a recipe for a slipped disk and an early morning trip to A&E. “Put your hands on the sink?” he suggested. Mycroft grasped both sides of the sink, and bent without asking, straddling his legs so he was at a more convenient height. “You've done this before, I see.”

“Of course,” said Mycroft. “As I trust, have you?” He gave Lestrade an interrogative stare in the mirror.

“Yeah,” he said. “'Course.” Although not actually with a bloke.

He busied himself with the bathrobe before he could be further pressed about his credentials, gathering the fabric and lifting it slowly, trailing his fingertips in its wake up the backs of Mycroft’s long pale thighs. Quick didn't have to mean rushed. By the time he’d reached the sensitive crease where leg met buttock, Mycroft was biting his lip, successfully distracted from any questions about competence. The robe he tied up out of the way, knotting it in a bulky half hitch around Mycroft’s waist. It left his bottom naked and his top-half demurely covered with barely a sliver of chest showing. Half naked was always a better look for all but the young and very toned. Of course, back in the day when he’d been young and lithe himself, he’d worn skin-tight jeans and a shirt unbuttoned to the navel. But then he’d also had a mullet and thought he'd looked the dog's bollocks, so that didn’t prove much.

“Right,” he said bringing himself back to the matter at hand. He gave his cock a couple of priming strokes then paused in realisation. He was hard and undeniably bare. He hadn't thought to come to John and Mary’s wedding equipped for a night of wild sex. “You got any, er…?”

Mycroft indicated the brown leather wash bag propped on the windowsill with a jerk of his chin. Lestrade found what he needed easily enough, though there were a couple of items inside which he couldn't identify, even having worked in Vice. He sorted himself out quick as he could, took hold of Mycroft’s hips and lined them up, then paused. It seemed ungentlemanly to just suit it up and stick it in.

Mycroft shared none of his reservations. “It’s perfectly all right. I’m not made of glass.”

No, not glass. The skin under his palms was warm and yielding to the touch. He liked how his hands looked gripping the round, pale flesh - rough and surprisingly dark against the unblemished skin.

“I’m not sure you deserve it,” he said to buy himself some breathing space. “Have you been a good boy?”

Mycroft lifted his head and stared at him hard in the mirror. “We don’t have the time for this today. Just put it in.”

“Stroppy,” Lestrade said, but the impatience reassured him more than any gentle encouragements would. He lined them up again and pressed the tip of his cock inwards, feeling his way until the tight ring of muscle begin to yield to the pressure, then pulled back. He tried again, pressing in an inch deeper, finding his angle, thought he’d got it, then doubted himself. Mycroft shifted beneath him and gave a petulant little stamp of this foot. “Don’t blame me when you can’t sit down,” Lestrade said and pushed inside.

It took a couple of false starts and a few minutes to get into it, but after that sex was just as hot and tight and good as he remembered it. He played his hips back and forth experimenting with speed and depth, then by chance found a particular angle which made Mycroft surge beneath his hands.

“Oh, it's there is it?” Lestrade said. “Is it there? Stay still then, let me get it.”

Sure enough when he glanced in the mirror, Mycroft’s eyes had closed and his mouth had curled upwards in the creamily satisfied expression of a man getting a specific itch scratched beautifully _._   I’m just a dick, he realised, just a hard dick for Mycroft Holmes to get off on. It should have been demeaning but it felt bloody great. He thrust in, short and fast, putting pressure on the back stroke so that he rubbed more firmly against that one particular spot. Mycroft’s skin grew slippery with sweat. He was breathing fast, uttering small groans in his urgency to find relief. Lestrade’s hands began slipping on his hips. He grabbed the bath robe instead, fastening his fingers into the fabric and using it to drag Mycroft back onto his cock. The pressure in his balls was building. His feet began to skid on the damp floor. He grabbed tighter and kept going. The slapping of their sweat-wet skin filled he tiny room..

“I’m going to make you come so hard you can’t stand up, then I’m going to wank off all over your arse, all right?” he said.

Mycroft said nothing but nodded rapidly. His face was dark red. His breath clouded the bathroom mirror. Involuntary grunts were coming from his mouth with every thrust of Lestrade’s hips.

“All right.” He planted his feet more firmly on the floor and licked his palm. “Let’s be having you then. I want to see it. Right now.” There was no need for any further encouragement. A couple of tugs on Mycroft’s cock and his head snapped back with a high pitched crow. What seemed like every muscle in his body clamped around Lestrade’s cock and he was coming in a series of frenetic jerks all over the bathroom mirror.

Lestrade took a second to decide  the noise had definitely counted as a squeal, then pulled out, tossed the condom and gave himself a similar treatment. A quick half dozen strokes of his hand and he shot his load across Mycroft’s pink arse. Not quite as hard as the previous night, but not at all bad for the second time in six hours.

He caught his breath for a second, then let go of the bathrobe, straightening up in time to catch Mycroft under the armpits as he staggered, gratifyingly wobbly-kneed at the loss of support.

“You should have a shower. Your car's going to be any minute,” he said and watched in satisfaction as Mycroft’s eyes flew open. He nipped him on the neck, gave him in the mirror and went back to bed.

 

* * *

 

He was woken an hour later by a very apologetic chambermaid. Mycroft had checked out and she’d thought the room was vacant. He opened horrified eyes to see the bathroom door still open and two incriminating stains streaked across the mirror, charming memento of their little tryst. He hurried her away and spent the next twenty minutes scrubbing at them guiltily with a damp flannel. After he had a tepid shower and hunted for his shoes. He found them eventually, neatly tidied into the bottom of the wardrobe, his jacket hanging above. He pulled it on, frowning at the unexpected weight in his pockets. When he turned them out, he found his phone in one hand and his wallet in the other. They hadn’t been there last night. He stated at them blankly, then realisation dawned.

“You _bastard_ ,” he said.

* * *

 

The rest of the day went quite smoothly. He reached Yeovil by half eight and spent the morning at the police station giving his statement. Once they realised he wasn't going to play the big Met DCI swooping in to take their glory, they became quite friendly. The OIC shouted him breakfast and dropped him at the station so he could catch his train. As luck would have it, an earlier service had been held by a red light and he caught it by the skin of his teeth. The train was packed. He braced himself for a three hour stand, but when the ticket inspector saw his warrant card she gave him a free upgrade. He ended up in First Class with a carriage to himself and a complementary selection of drinks and snacks from the trolley. He spent the time sorting out the arrest paperwork then caught up on his sleep. They were in Waterloo by three.

The Northern line was as grim as usual - nothing to be done about that - but once he got in his car he hit a run of green lights and had a clear drive home. He arrived back at the flat in time to go for a run, then pop to the shops for some proper ingredients instead of a takeaway. On his way back down the high street, he had the weirdest feeling that the CCTV cameras on the bank opposite were turning to follow him. But when he stopped and checked, they weren’t.

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of notes on references:
> 
>   **Estuary accent**  
>   A midway point between working class London and posh received pronunciation accents. 
> 
> **Morecambe and Wise**  
>   Much loved comic double act who had their heyday in the sixties and seventies. Had many sketches showing them living together and sharing a bed. This is the kind of thing Lestrade’s thinking of: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Daz9fFrL-Y  
> (Though this one is my favourite: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EFgdhZGLJrY )
> 
> **Open University**  
>  The UK’s biggest distance learning university founded in the 1960s; it offers university education to part time/distance/mature students. It has a solid reputation.
> 
>   **Ray Winstone**  
>  Actor of I AM BEOWULF AND I SHALL KILL YOUR MONSTAH fame. Known for being one of the few British actors with a genuine old-style working class London accent:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wU-9Lx0_wR8
> 
>  **The tattoo**  
>   Lestrade’s tattoo of a red shield is a reference to Rupert Graves’s beloved Arsenal football club. Their centenary year was 1985.


End file.
